Angela did not have words for what scared her.
She only knew that night felt different from day, that shadows stretched too far, that silence could suddenly turn sharp.
She knew that sometimes her heart beat fast even when nothing was happening, and that she woke up with her hands clenched like she was holding onto something that had already slipped away.
The first nightmare came quietly.
She was dreaming of a house,her house, she thought,only it was bigger and darker, with hallways that bent where they shouldn't.
She was calling for her mother, her voice small and echoing, but the sound kept falling into corners and not coming back. Somewhere behind her, footsteps followed, slow and patient.
Angela ran.
She woke with a gasp, sitting straight up in bed, her chest burning, the room unfamiliar for a terrifying second.
Moonlight spilled across the floor, turning her toys into strange shapes. Her blanket was twisted around her legs like it was trying to hold her down.
"Mom," she whispered.
No answer.
Her door was open just a crack, the way Jennifer always left it. Angela swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet touching the cold floor.
The house was quiet,too quiet. She padded into the hallway, every step careful, her body already learning the rules even if her mind didn't understand them.
Her parents' door was closed.
She stood there, staring at it, fear crawling up her spine. Sometimes it was safe to knock. Sometimes it wasn't. Angela didn't know how to tell the difference yet, only that her stomach twisted when she tried to decide.
She turned and went to her mother's room instead.
Jennifer woke instantly when Angela climbed onto the bed, her body reacting before her mind caught up. She pulled Angela close, smoothing her hair.
"What's wrong, baby?"
Angela buried her face in her mother's chest. "I had a bad dream."
Jennifer held her tighter. "You're okay. You're safe."
Angela nodded, though she wasn't sure what safe meant. She only knew that her mother's arms felt like the closest thing to it.
The nightmares didn't come every night at first.
They arrived like uninvited guests,once, then again, then close enough together that Angela started to expect them. She began to dread bedtime, dragging out brushing her teeth, asking for extra stories, extra hugs.
"Just one more," she'd say, eyes wide.
Jennifer never refused.
But even with the light on, even with her favorite stuffed animal tucked under her arm, sleep no longer felt like rest. It felt like falling.
Sometimes Angela dreamed of monsters with her father's voice but no face. Sometimes she dreamed of being very small while the world grew loud around her. Sometimes she woke up crying without remembering anything at all.
"Why do I keep having bad dreams?" she asked one morning, sitting at the kitchen table with her cereal untouched.
Jennifer hesitated. "Dreams are just our brains sorting things out," she said carefully. "They don't mean anything bad is going to happen."
Angela frowned. "Then why do they feel bad?"
Jennifer didn't have an answer.
At school, Angela grew quieter.
Her teacher noticed first. Angela had always been cheerful, eager to share, her drawings bright and full of motion. Now she sat with her hands folded, eyes drifting to the door whenever it opened. During nap time, she startled awake, heart racing, cheeks flushed.
"Is everything okay at home?" the teacher asked gently one afternoon.
Angela nodded automatically. That was the correct answer. She had learned that much.
At home, Darren noticed next.
"Why is she always sleeping in your room?" he asked Jennifer one evening, his voice low.
"She has nightmares," Jennifer replied.
Darren's jaw tightened. "About what?"
"I don't think she knows."
Karen listened from the doorway, saying nothing. She watched Angela cling to Jennifer, watched the way Angela's eyes tracked their father's movements even when she was playing.
Karen saw patterns. Angela felt them.
One night, the nightmare was worse.
Angela dreamed she was standing in the living room, holding her coloring book, when her father's shadow grew huge on the wall. He didn't touch her. He didn't yell. He just looked at her, and somehow that was scarier. She tried to move, but the floor stuck to her feet.
She woke up screaming.
Jennifer was there in seconds, lifting her from the bed, rocking her gently.
"It's okay, it's okay," she whispered.
Angela clutched her mother's shirt, sobbing. "Don't let him be mad."
Jennifer froze.
"Who, sweetheart?"
Angela shook her head violently. "I don't know. I just don't want him mad."
Jennifer pressed her lips together, fighting the sting in her eyes. "No one is mad at you," she said firmly. "No one ever should be."
Angela's breathing slowed, but her grip didn't loosen.
After that, Angela started wetting the bed.
It happened once, then again. Jennifer handled it quietly, gently, stripping sheets before anyone else could notice. Angela was mortified, tears spilling down her face.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Oh, honey," Jennifer said, holding her. "This isn't your fault."
Angela nodded, but shame had already begun to take root.
David noticed anyway.
"This is a problem," he said one morning, his tone clipped. "She's too old for this."
"She's having nightmares," Jennifer replied, keeping her voice even.
"So?" he said. "That's no excuse for bad habits."
Angela stood frozen in the hallway, listening.
That night, she dreamed of drowning.
After that, she refused to sleep alone.
She dragged her blanket into Jennifer's room without asking, curling up on the floor if she had to. Jennifer never sent her back. David complained. Jennifer absorbed it.
Angela began to carry her fear into the day.
She startled at raised voices,even laughter that came too suddenly. She flinched when doors closed too fast. She learned to watch her father's face the way Karen did, reading signals she couldn't name.
One afternoon, she drew a picture at school.
It showed a house under a dark sky. Inside, a little girl slept in a bed that was too big for her. Outside the door stood a tall shape with no face.
Her teacher knelt beside her. "Can you tell me about this?"
Angela shrugged. "It's just a dream."
The teacher smiled, but her eyes stayed serious.
At home, Angela's world narrowed.
She stuck close to Jennifer, followed her from room to room. When Jennifer cooked, Angela sat on the counter. When Jennifer folded laundry, Angela folded socks, clumsy but determined.
"Why don't you play with your toys?" Jennifer asked one afternoon.
Angela shook her head. "I want to stay with you."
Jennifer kissed the top of her head. "Okay."
One night, Angela woke again, heart racing. She lay still, listening. The house hummed softly. Somewhere, her father coughed in his sleep. The sound made her stomach twist.
She slid out of bed and padded down the hall.
Karen's door opened a crack, light spilling out. Angela stepped inside.
Karen sat on her bed, reading. She looked up, surprised.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
"I'm scared," Angela whispered.
Karen set the book aside and opened her arms. Angela climbed in, curling against her sister.
Karen held her carefully, like she might break.
"Do you have bad dreams too?" Angela asked.
Karen hesitated. "Sometimes."
"Why?"
Karen stared at the wall. "I think… sometimes our brains know things before we do."
Angela frowned. "Like what?"
Karen didn't answer.
Instead, she stroked Angela's hair until her breathing slowed.
Later, Jennifer found them asleep together, tangled in blankets. She stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching her daughters cling to each other.
Something inside her shifted.
That weekend, Jennifer took Angela to the park alone.
They sat on a bench while Angela pushed her feet against the dirt, watching other children play.
"Mom?" Angela said.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Am I bad?"
Jennifer's heart cracked. "No. Why would you think that?"
"Because bad things happen to me," Angela said simply.
Jennifer pulled her close. "Bad things don't happen because you're bad. They happen because… because sometimes grown-ups don't protect kids the way they should."
Angela thought about that. "Will you protect me?"
Jennifer closed her eyes. "Always."
That night, Angela slept in Jennifer's bed again.
She still dreamed,but the dreams were shorter. Less sharp. Sometimes she woke up crying. Sometimes she just reached for her mother's hand and went back to sleep.
The fear didn't disappear.
But it changed.
It became something quieter. Something watchful.
Angela didn't understand what haunted her, only that her body remembered things her mind couldn't explain yet. She learned early what many children learn too soon,that safety could vanish without warning, that love could feel fragile, that sleep was not always a refuge.
And somewhere deep inside her, a small, steady thought began to form:
If she stayed close enough to her mother, maybe the dark couldn't find her.
Not yet.